


Stilleven

by ungefug



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Trauma, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungefug/pseuds/ungefug
Summary: Dr. Watson's recollection of a case gone wrong with serious consequences for his dear friend Sherlock Holmes.





	Stilleven

This is not going to be an adventure. There will be no mystery and no deductions, no wit and no humour. I write these words not to be read by anyone. Before the ink has dried on the paper I shall feed them to the fire. If you read this, some cause outside my own control prevented me from doing as I intended and I implore you not to read any further and do me the kind favour of destroying these very papers. Please do so not just for my sake but also for the sake of the great Sherlock Holmes.

I confess I don’t fully understand what compels me to write down the events of that awful day in autumn, when such terrible harm was done to my dear friend Sherlock Holmes. Regarding that topic silence hangs between us and that is as it should be. It would be more becoming if I simply forgot. Yet some incomprehensible force drives me to think and to write and I can only obey its command. When my pen halts on the paper, my thoughts fester and I sob. Holmes is right, I am hopelessly romantic. It is to my own detriment. I succumb to sentimentality. Again and again when I think of that day my mind constructs phrases not suited to describe cold facts but my own useless feelings. Naively I try to wrest from the cruel reality some meaning beyond the senseless torment of mind and flesh. I will try to keep my calm and get all of this out of my head for good.

The circumstances that lead up to those terrible events are irrelevant except in painting the character of our adversary and I shall only shortly recall them to transport my mind to the right place. Holmes and I were on the tracks of some truly vile men suspected in the trade, torture and murder of society’s most vulnerable. Young boys from poor homes had gone missing and nameless women washed up ashore, their bound bodies still telling a tale of the torture they have had to endure. Even in Afghanistan I had not seen such depravity committed on the weakest of mankind.

The trail lead us deeper into the countryside of old Britain, how quaint and lonely it was. There by a rocky cliffside I saw with my own eyes one of the lost women washed ashore, laid on the black shingle beach, bloated and white like a maggot, retaining almost no human shape, yet upon closer inspection the corpse was still preserved enough to tell the tale of the woman’s demise. Holmes looked at me then without a word but a world to tell in his eyes. Do you see now, they seemed to say. Yes, I did see how frightening this barren land could be and how glad I was that he had taken me along and that he was not alone. Every cottage bore horrors, stunted trees threw long shadows over the moor and dim inns were full of whispers.

In one of those ghastly places we had taken up lodging. It was an uncomfortable stay. The beds were hard, the washbasins filthy and on the third day the tea was poisoned. I had already drunk a considerable amount of it before Holmes raised his own cup to his lips and after the very first sip noticed a peculiar taste that I myself had failed to pay any heed to. He was quick to react.

"Watson, spit that tea out this instant, and empty your stomach,'' he demanded. And he ran to fetch his pistol while further urging me to disgorge what I had consumed. But the poison took effect with poignant timing. The cup slipped from my fingers, and the porcelain burst on the ground in many pieces. My eyelids became heavy, my knees weak. I collapsed and I recall the last thing I saw was Sherlock Holmes looking down of me full of concern, holding me in his arms while one hand rested on my neck, the long thin fingers feeling for my pulse. In the other hand he held his pistol at the ready. I distinctly recall the tremor in his voice as he repeatedly called my name to keep me conscious. The terror of what was to come, death possibly, grew dimmer and I sunk into the comforting feeling of lying in my dear friend’s caring arms.

I lost consciousness and when I awoke again I was in a different place: a small room made from rough stone all around. It had only one hole for a window high above, through which the otherwise dark room was lit by a ray of bright, pale light. There was a heavy iron door and in the middle of the room, a wooden table of the sort that was not meant for dining but craft.

With great relief I saw Holmes was with me too, at the other end of the room. Curiously he was lying flat on the floor, his whole tall body stretched out. Around his left ankle I saw a shackle on a chain that tied him to the ground. The same was around my ankle and I could feel the uncomfortable tightness of it. By my estimation he was just close enough so that if we strained the chains, we might just about be able to touch our fingertips together. There was something disturbingly primal about our situation. The impression was derived not just from the way we were held prisoner, much like animals in the circus, but also from Holmes himself. As I was coming to my senses I saw that he was struggling intently to reach the door, stretching and pulling on the chain in a manner that must have been very painful. Precipitation was visible on his high forehead, his clothing was in disarray and the front of his body covered in dust and filth that shone brightly on the black of his coat. He came very close to touching the door, but it was just out of reach. I was reminded then of a wolf that had its leg stuck in a trap and now twisted and pulled at it frantically only to cut its own flesh down to the bone.

I had not yet raised my voice to draw attention to myself, but as if he had eyes in the back of his head Holmes was alerted to my awakening. It must have been the change in my breathing, I now suspect, but then I was merely utterly impressed as I have been so many times before by my friend’s near clairvoyance. He halted in his escape attempts and turned to look at me, assuming a more leisurely posture, lying on his side, his head elegantly propped up on one hand, a position I often found him in when entering our shared rooms, where he would lounge on the sofa or on the floor, surrounded by newspapers and letters like a big decadent cat stretched out between the feathers of its catch. He smiled reassuringly, yet underneath I detected still a tenseness, which spoke to me of his concern.

“My dearest Watson, you’re finally awake. I was rather concerned about your wellbeing, how are you then?"

"A little dizzy," said I, "but I trust the ill effects will wear off."

"That is good to hear, my boy!"

"Weren't you affected at all?" I asked, remembering now again the last moments of my consciousness and the pistol in his hand, wondering what had occurred that left him unscathed and us imprisoned.

"Much less so than you, but enough to slow down my reflexes and I'm afraid I missed the crucial shot that could have saved the two of us much trouble. Now you see we have got ourselves in a bit of a tight situation,” he said, pointing at the hole through which a dusty ray of light fell into our cell, "having been blindfolded after our capture yet not deafened, I am quite certain as to our exact location, its remoteness, and that no amount of calling for help will reach benevolent ears. Yet I might be able to perform a trick that once we make it back to Baker Street you might go so far as to describe as miraculous in your all too flattering recording of this case."

In hindsight it hurts all the more to remember these words and the earnestness with which he spoke them.

"Now we have little time," he went on to say, "I expect an unpleasant visit soon. Would you be so kind and hand me your scarf?”

This whole situation seemed rather otherworldly to me, possibly amplified by the aftereffects of the soporific agent I had consumed. Yet without hesitation I drew the scarf from my shoulders. It had been a gift from Holmes himself. Keenly aware of the unpleasant chain around my ankle I crawled closer to pass the item to Holmes. In that very moment there were heavy steps outside, a key turned in the lock and the door swung open.

In stepped a man of incredible size, fat and tall. He was clothed in a suit of dark purple and ornately patterned Indian fabric that might have been considered bohemian on a different man. His belly protruded from his jacket, barely contained by a vest with many buttons of a gaudy ornamentation and shine. The roundness of it was grotesque. His body was so enormous and fat that despite the adequate tailoring of his suit, he seemed to be at any moment bursting out of his clothing, yet he did not look weak, not weighed down by the excessive mass, but strong like a boar. And he did not lumber, he waltzed with a sickening pleasure oozing out of every move. He wore a wide grin on his piglike face and the dark little eyes sparkled between the pink fat of his cheeks. Never before had I seen gluttony and decadence personified in one man to such an extent.

Before the door had even opened, Holmes had already sprung swiftly to his feet and now stood upright, proudly facing that enormous man, while I slowly, for I still felt dizzy, followed his example. I could see that Holmes was as tense and alert as a hound on the scent and taking in every detail about the man, surely deducing from it many facts that escaped me. The man too had noticed the fierce energy in Holmes’s cold and calculating stare.

“Deducing, are we, Mr. Holmes?” said he and chuckled. “Have you seen through me then, do you know of my sinful ways and the depth of my perversion?”

He said all this with such satisfied complacency, there was no doubt in my mind that this criminal revelled in the flaws of his character and wished to reveal them to us like his proudest works of art. I thought of the girl’s body that had lain on the shore and the marks of bondage and torture it had borne, and I shuddered.

“Mr. Norwood, my analysis doesn’t concern itself with morality, but with habits,” Holmes said dryly. I was surprised to hear that Holmes recognized the man, whose name meant nothing to me, yet Norwood was not surprised at all. Still smiling with devious content he turned to me and looked me over in a most invasive fashion.

"Who could this be then but the dear Doctor? The master's faithful pet. It's all coming to life right from the pages! And what an honest witness you are in regards to Mr. Holmes. He really is everything you promised. Such supple form."

He emitted a snorting laughter that grew into a deep satisfied chuckle. Evidently no longer interested in what little my person had to offer he turned back to Holmes and looked at him with the same hungry gaze that I had felt penetrating me.

"What a lonely misunderstood ugly boy this young Sherlock Holmes must have been", he said, grinning.

Holmes’s brows drew together, his face darkened, his mouth became a tight line. I hardly recognized him. He looked terribly angry. With a curious smile and jolly swagger Norwood came closer, reaching out with his stubby paw, seemingly intent to touch Holmes’s face. Suddenly Holmes punched him in the face with a terrific blow that would have felled most men. Norwood was not moved, he did not react at. All the terrific force Holmes had exerted simply rolled off that gigantic mass.

"I expected a little more constraint," said he chidingly, "now it's my turn." And he hit Holmes with the flat of his hand. The sound was immense, the force sent Holmes's thin body flying and he tumbled to the floor. I was helpless and could only watch as Norwood then picked him up again by the collar and held him up like a toy. Holmes was bleeding from his nose and the blood was running over his lips, having already made its way down to his chin as he turned to me and very calmly said, "My dear friend, in the interest of your nerves, you need not see this." I started to protest but he cut me off. "You must not," he said severely. Then Norwood hit him again and I turned away.

Was it weakness or was it strength of character that made me avert my eyes? Staring at the stone wall I heard so much more intensely the loud thud of Holmes's body hitting the table, his quiet groan, the rattling of the chain, a struggle of limbs, another thud and then sudden retching, the splatter of liquid hitting the surface of the table, a stomach emptied.

What did we have for lunch? I tried to focus on the ridiculous question, envisioning in my mind where we had been earlier, our room, the table, a plate on it, Holmes smiling at me over his teacup. Meanwhile there was the rustling of clothing, adjusting of weight, creaking of wood. And the sort of sounds that stir arousal, heavy hungry breathing, a thick glob of spit bursting as it hit skin. I stared at the little crack in the wall as if by doing so I could plunge into its depths. Holmes’s high-pitched, pained whimper ran through me. Norwood groaned with pleasure, followed by the revolting wet sound of sex and hurt. The whimper did not cease and it drew out into a low whining. I knew it was Holmes yet it sounded more like a wailing child than man. I could not even bear to hear it. Not for my own weakness. In Afghanistan I had seen terrible things, men cut open, broken, pierced, parched and sick, but never had I witnessed such things committed onto one I held so dear, or anything so senselessly ignoble onto one so noble.

I had withdrawn into a corner like a beaten dog and closed my hands over my ears, but even as the whimper finally died down I couldn't escape that awful, wet, sexual sound and all I could think of was that act, and its every visceral detail was visualized in my mind, like worms under a magnifying glass. Shame and disgust and, yes, even a perversely inverted curiosity overcoming me, I eventually turned to see what I could not avoid hearing.

Holmes's lean figure was draped over the edge of the table. His trousers and undergarments were at this ankles, his coat thrown up over his back. His bottom was bare, the finely sculpted thighs hung slack off the table. Behind him with his trousers undone stood that beast of a man. His thick hands were holding onto Holmes’s hips, digging into the pale skin. His enormous belly and much of his weight was resting on the slender body below. I am trying to avoid stating the painfully obvious. Norwood was sodomizing Holmes. It was more than rape. It was terrible. He was using Holmes cruelly, each brutal thrust sending his slender body into the hard edge of the table and as that man had his way with him like that, as if he was not a man, but only a thing to use and abuse, Holmes was simply lying there, motionless, quietly enduring. His head was turned towards me and as I am writing these words I wonder for how long it had been that way, I wonder if he had watched me, if he had seen my disgust and if it had hurt him.

In that moment however he was looking through me, not at me, or at anything. His eyes were two dull mirrors, open but unseeing. He was a puppet, gaunt and pale. Blood was running from his brow and nose. His lips were slightly parted, like a young girl waiting innocently for a kiss. Yellow vomit was still oozing from his mouth and, mixing with the blood, it had collected in a gastly puddle of foul smelling sickly pink liquid, through which his face was being dragged repeatedly.

He looked blissfully dead.

Suddenly all my reason and restraint was overcome by fear for his life. "Holmes!" I cried, “Holmes!”

Oh, how I regret it. Life returned to his features. His eyes regained focus and then widened in recognition.

“John”, he gasped and he stared at me with something indescribable in his expression.

My voice failed me.

His hands were twitching nervously. Suddenly he raised them to his head, tearing at his hair, violently dragging his long fingers through the dark strands and scratching his scalp as if he meant to tear the skin off his head. In shock and confusion I tried to reach out and to somehow express that I was with him and that he need not be ashamed, but it was no use. He hid his face in his hands and started sobbing uncontrollably.

I saw white. There was a ringing in my ears. My only thought was to save him. I jumped forward but the chain held me back with a sudden painful yank that threw me to the floor. I kept crawling towards him, pulling on the chain. It was senseless and mad. The shackle cut into my flesh. Like a mindless animal, I kept vainly pulling on my leash.

Norwood was delighted by the change in Holmes’s resolve and my own, lesser torment. He began using Holmes more cruelly, forcing choked cries of pain out of him, looking down at me all the while from his beady eyes, eating up my distress.

I pleaded for him to stop.

I don't want to repeat my words.

I promised Norwood everything I had to offer, at last my own body, and that did him over.

Afterwards he stood for a while, huffing, sweating, stinking.

I could see that the muscles in Holmes’s thighs were taut and his legs twitching beyond his control. His face was flushed. It stirred something terrible in me. Sometimes pleasure and pain look very much alike.

Norwood left us, I don’t remember what he said, if anything. I could not avert my attention from my dear friend. He lay still for a long time, the only sign of life his troubled breathing. Ejaculate was dripping down his thighs.

Eventually he stood up, wiped his face and dressed himself slowly, as if every movement caused him some hurt. Very far away from me in the dark he curled himself up like a thin, long-legged spider with his small knees drawn to his chin and his arms wrapped around his shins, and so sat in silence with closed eyes, entirely shut off from the world.

These were terrible hours, waiting for the return of our captor and expecting only torture and death and all the while glancing at my dear friend, worrying for the state of his mind.

Then Lestrade came to our rescue - bless him for not being entirely as incompetent as Sherlock Holmes thought him to be. Our disappearance had not gone unnoticed and he had followed the lead that Holmes had entrusted him with the day before. When the good detective found Holmes still in such an unresponsive state, he must have thought him merely sulking over the fact that he had failed to solve the case and been saved by a lesser man. Unaware of how my partner had been used and curiously oblivious to the whole gravity of the situation he found it very amusing for once to be the saviour of the great man. I could have beaten the words out of his mouth, but I restrained myself, thinking of the trouble it would cause Holmes and when I spoke for my apathetic friend I did not correct Lestrade’s mistaken assumption. Lestrade need not know the truth. Even the most sensible men can have cruel notions of honour.

With some relief I was informed that Norwood had been shot dead when, faced with half a dozen officers of the law, he had made the mistake of reaching for a gun. I did not see his body, nor did Holmes. As great a satisfaction it was to know him dead, I did not want to see that monster ever again. Yet what a relief to know that what has happened in that dungeon will forever be between Holmes and I.

Back in our rooms at Baker Street the wounds were fresh and we still did not talk about the obvious and in our mutually agreed silence I patched my master up. I tried to act as if this were not any different from his injuries I had attended to in the past. Just another tussle, just another bout.

“You’re not the first man I’ve had to treat for this injury,” I said, “it has been inflicted on many good soldiers.. many good men.”

He seemed to understand.

I gave him some brandy, holding the glass to his lips for his fingers refused to grasp. This brought some colour to his bloodless cheeks.

In his bedroom he allowed me to undress him, which was the first time I saw his spare figure entirely nude, as even in the Turkish bath he took care to hide his body. He was shaped by lean muscles, more Apollo than Hercules. I knew him to be stronger than me in explosive moments, but now he looked very frail. It was the way he held himself, like a beaten wife and the bruises forming under his skin, the dried blood and the lingering stench of vomit and semen.

When I at first gently touched him he trembled under my fingertips like a young fawn. He calmed down as I proceeded to wash him with a sponge and hot water, which I did for a very long time, until the water had cooled. Under different circumstances I would have tried to avoid touching him intimately, but given the nature of his injury, it could not be helped. He flinched away, not in pain, I observed, but in fright, which I suspect to be not entirely due to the brutal assault. It began to dawn on me that something had been taken from him by force that he dared not even to give voluntarily to someone he loved.

Having cleaned and soothed him I wrapped him in a towel. Laying him such down on his bed, partly covered to allow for some illusion of decency, I sewed up his wounds where it was possible and applied some ointment against swelling and pain. He endured this with a remote expression. This was all I could do, I told him, and that he needed to rest. I glanced at him from the doorway one last time and then his door remained closed for two days.

Although I knew the injuries to his nerves were greater than those to his body, I worried a lot. I imagined him lying dead in his bed in a puddle of blood from a wound I had failed to detect. I imagined him helpless like a baby soiling himself and too proud to call for my help.

When finally he reappeared it was morning and I was waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring breakfast (still for two). I had been trying to interest myself in the newspaper, while my mind was in truth spinning with concern about him. He looked deadly pale, but very prim. His hair was neat and he was dressed in some of the best his vast wardrobe had to offer, adorned with the green jewelled needle he had received in return for solving the curious case of the Lion’s Eye and on his finger he wore the ring given to him by the king of Bohemia. He looked like an iridescent black beetle, very out of place in the soft autumn light of our casual shared lodgings.

I offered him a cup of coffee. Holmes smiled wide with the suave he could so easily assume and took it with an exaggerated gesture and theatrical gratitude.

“Good morning, Watson, and how are you, my dear boy?” he said. “No more pain in the shoulder, I observe.”

“Fine, old man,” I replied, "but, how could you possibly tell I've once again been bothered by that old wound?"

Over ham, toast and boiled eggs he eagerly explained this deduction and many more and I expressed my amazement in so many adoring terms. It was evident from the dilation of his pupils that he had administered some of his own medicine. I can't say I would not have done the same in his situation.

By now six weeks have passed. Once he allowed me to check up on his recovery and physically he is doing well. He could take up another case and I believe it would do him much good. There have been clients with trivial tasks, which I was glad to hear as those promised no danger to him, but none of the cases have interested him. He had said so quite convincingly as was his habit with yawns and rolled eyes. Currently it seems his only calling are the chemical experiments, if at all he can tear himself away from that languid mood of his.

I still remember very clearly how I had hurriedly escorted Holmes to the police cab that terrible day, and how fiercely he had held on to me then, a painful grasp that would easily have bruised a leaner man than myself. Maybe today I can finally take him for a walk around the park as had been our habit, and once again feel his thin long fingers gently holding onto my arm.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this simply because I couldn't find any fic with the kind of explicit rape I enjoy (well, that came out wrong). Rape is the juicy bone marrow, the rest is just a little extra for support.
> 
> Shout-out to "The Case of Erudition Toward Reliance", which I unfortunately never got to read in full.


End file.
